Blog 17: Building headaches, miracles and prayers

When I agreed to try and come up with a proposal to spend some bequest money left for Phelisanong, I did not anticipate the epic proportions this task would involve. I had some idea of a physio house, instead of the cramped corner I am trying to operate out of, with maybe a playground in front of it. I was surprised last week when I was told the builder had come to see me. I presumed that I just needed to point out where this building might go, the chosen spot being the site of the old broken swings.

Somehow, as we tramp around the site at Phelisanong it becomes a two-phase plan. Phase one consisting of three different projects, in an attempt to make Phelisanong a flat, wheelchair friendly, site. Presently, the access to the school building is probably most suited for skilled motor cross riders, with the path an interesting slope of about 60 degrees, between two of the classroom blocks, with a brick wall straight ahead for those who lose control. Not surprisingly most of the wheelchairs have disintegrated while trying to negotiate these perils and only a few battered specimens remain.

“Make it flat” I say to Mr Chalabala, the builder, at least hundred times as the scale of the hazards becomes apparent. At the end of tour the brightly smiling Mr Chalabala agrees to make three separate quotes, for the three different projects of phase one. When this comes back the next day, it is one large quote for all the labour costs, none of the material costs are included and there is no mention that the physiotherapy house will have any doors or windows. He returns at the beginning of the week and we go through the whole process again in the midday sun.

The quotes and ambitions of the project ebb and flow, until finally we agree we should keep it simple and limit it to just a physio house and a bit of path for access. I feel a great sense of relief and there is a photo call on the patch of land where the physio house will be. The smile on my face freezes when Joel (the finance officer) says that Mamello has asked if we could move it to the right, to give her a view down the valley from her office. Such a move would greatly increase the cost, as it would entail levelling the slope which tails off on that side.

As the finance officer, Joel, can fully appreciate that views come at a price and I leave him to break to news to Mamello. So, the next day I am due to meet Mr Chalabala in a hotel in Leribe to get his quote. It’s a very hot day, added to by the fact I am sitting next to a pizza oven, but I am too hot to move to somewhere cooler. Mr Chalabala arrives without the quote and says we should go to the builder’s merchant to get the prices of materials. I tell him this is not a good idea and I have never had any interest in bags of cement or sand.

I buy him a beer instead and we go through the list of materials again and add various items which might be useful like lights and door frames, until I lose the will to live. Mr Chalabala finishes his beer and goes to the builder’s merchant without me and my lift arrives to take me home. 

On the way back we pass by Mr Chalabala's two story house, built by him and still standing, which I feel is a good omen. He returns the next day with an itemised quote, three pages long, for all the materials needed from Hard Ware City. I am impressed and start checking through the list and immediately spot a discrepancy on page one, “Four double sinks? I said only a single was needed.” Hard Ware City seems to have got a little carried away with the plumbing of the physio room, while forgetting to cost the sand or concrete at all. We finally come up with a definitive list which Mr Chalabala takes away again for Hard Ware City to amend.

The last building project I was involved in was over thirty years ago, in the North West Territories of Canada, when I was helping a builder construct a log cabin (it’s a long story). Unfortunately, he had to go to Winnipeg and never returned, leaving me to learn how to use a very large chain saw and build a dozen walls on jigs, 15 logs high. Good job I had the whole summer to do it. With that experience in mind I have now gone for a much cheaper option of upgrading the present physio room and bought hammer, nails, sandpaper and cups in an endeavour to achieve deluxe status.

I already have a saw with me and decide to use it, along with my other tools, to strengthen table legs, bang in the nails that stick out, sandpaper the splinters away, raise the plastic table, which is too small for the older children to get their legs under, using the cups, and reorganise the space so I have at least an area the width and length of a small child, in which they can lie down and do stretches. Before that I turn my attention to House 8 which has the most disabled children in.

The most powerful weapon I have in my arsenal is my new hammer and put it into immediate action to hang the colourful ribbons that I have brought to hang from the roof of House 8. Even armed with my hammer there is still a problem with the central hanging point for the ribbons, which is eventually solved with a large piece of bubble gum to stop it coming off the nail. I amuse the care ladies for about an hour with my decorating efforts, but the final effect is quite pleasing. 

In the afternoon, the physio room get the DIY treatment. The cups I brought are too small for the plastic table, but Malineo and Sylvia improvise with peanut butter containers, earth and carboard, producing an instantly height adjustable table. I relinquish my hammer to Mahali, a man who will turn his hand to anything, and has made a small table for the Lecky corner seat, out of rough pieces of wood hammered together with a stone. Together we improve on its rustic appearance and texture, producing something more stable and almost Ikea like, if viewed in a certain shadowy light.

Who needs 250 bags of cement, 3 loads of rough sand, 3 loads of fine sand, 6 aluminium windows, 2 double doors, roofing sheets, bricks, tiles, pipes, wiring, blah, blah, blah… Anyway, I don’t have to meet Mr Chalabala until Monday so can turn my attention to all things physio until then. Friday morning starts in House 8 as usual, helping with breakfast. It is in this house that Malineo has performed a miracle with Lithapelo, the most difficult resident to feed in the whole of Phelisanong (see blog 6)

For 25 years, this girl has been fed on her back. She gags and splutters as her jaw goes into extensor spasm and her tongue thrusts out. She has flexure contracture of her limbs, windswept hips and a rotated trunk. Last year I decided the best way to feed her upright was  in a large pushchair, which has a bolster between the knees. With additional padding this arrangement was just about able to retain her spasms. However, there has been some backsliding on this method and once again I catch the house mothers feeding her on her back, covering her mouth with a rag to avoid getting sprayed with the food she spits out.

With Malineo’s help, I began the whole procedure again, it needs two of us to feed Lithapelo’s and assist her jaw to close. After a few days I left Malineo to battle on with the help of a house mother, while I dealt with other children. I noticed at the beginning of this week that Malineo was feeding Lithapelo alone, and go to help her. Lithapelo opens her mouth and automatically I use my hand to support her closing it. Usually this takes quite an effort, but hardly any is required. Puzzled, I do it again, using just one finger, then realise that Lithapelo can do it without any assistance at all, and has also  stopped gagging and spraying her food everywhere.

Malineo doesn’t need any help at all and I stand back and watch. She has found a screw on table, which comes across the front of the chair, stopping Lithapelo from squirming out of it. She also has the patience of an angel and lets Lithapelo go at her own pace, anticipating her spasms, and constantly adjusting the support padding to get her head in a good position. This gives Lithapelo more control and consequently she is more relaxed which reduces the spasms. I try to tell Malineo what an amazing thing she has done. She smiles embarrassed and carries on feeding Lithapelo. I am left to marvel at this unassuming lady and the transformation she has made to one girls life.            

    

After Friday I am feeling that things are going quite well, the boys are getting much stronger with their walking and Marsala’s reach and grasp and head control has come on miraculously in two weeks. The only blip is both she and Lesojane have been sick the last couple of days and because they and the more able children go to school I can’t do as much physio as I want to with them during the week. When I come in on Saturday it’s an opportunity to do a lot more, but first go to House 8 to see Keneoue, who was not so good on Friday, coming down with a cold and diarrhoea.

I struggle to get her to drink any milk and when I change her nappy find she has had more diarrhoea and her skin is paper thin, drawn tightly across her sunken belly. I don’t think her body can weigh more than 7 pounds. I manage to track down some rehydration salts, detail Sylvia to go to the kitchen, get some boiled water, sterilise a bottle and make up the salts. Over an hour passes to achieve this feat and cool the water down, in which I over ambitiously try to run a physiotherapy session with and Malineo half a dozen children.

It is completely bonkers, but what can I do when I go into house 5 and they are all desperate to come. Mthimokholo is standing at the door as I go in, balancing precariously with his arms and legs akimbo (he is ataxic with learning difficulties). “Mme Jan” he shouts with delight, falling into my arms and dribbling all over me. By the time Malineo I have staggered up the path with the children to the physio room, with the various walking aids they use, most of them need to go back to the house again to go to the toilet. Anyway at least they achieve a fair amount of walking.

The water cools and I go to try and get Keneoue to drink some. It’s impossible, she is coughing with all the might her fragile body can manage. After half an hour of getting nowhere I ask the head house mother to come and tell her Keneoue must go to hospital and go on a drip. She is dangerously dehydrated and simply too weak to cope with diarrhoea and a cold. Keneoue is lying motionless with frothy white saliva on the pillow and the house mother calls Mamello, who immediately sends a vehicle to take her to hospital.

Little Keneoue with the misshapen head, who nobody wants, not even the hospitals, which is why she has been brought to Phelisanong. Here though, there are hazards all around, germs that her weak body can’t fight. I’m amazed that she’s made it this far and pray that she will win this latest battle she faces.